Siberian Treasure

3

Dannen Fridkov had always heard Riyadh described as an island, a refuge, in the center of barren desert; and indeed, the Saudi Arabian capital was exactly that.

Located in the middle of the Kingdom, the city sported an eclectic combination of mud-dabbed buildings and fortresses, courtyards with palm-tree-trunk pillars, and modern white spires. And the only greenery to be spotted for hundreds of miles.

Doors to traditional and modern buildings alike were ornate with Islamic art and designs in colorful geometric and organic shapes, often repetitious in their patterns. The streets were generously wide and busy, thronged with pedestrians, limousines and the brown and yellow commuter buses available to women and those with limited funds.

Fridkov had visited the city only once before, at night, briefly; so this mid-day visit in the cloak of desert heat was quite a different experience. He would have preferred time to wander a bit, shopping for rugs on Talateen Street, but his mission was clear, and, of necessity, must be quick. He settled back into the seat of his chauffeured car, adjusting the unfamiliar skirts of the thobe he had donned in an effort to blend in as a native rather than a Western businessman.

The Lincoln Town Car moved smoothly through the streets, and Fridkov eyed Riyadh’s Water Tower looming above the city. It rose like a flower toward the sun, with a long stem and a flat, fan-like top, glowing dirty yellow in the radiating heat. It was ironic that one of the most prominent landmarks in a city made from oil wealth was that of a water tower.

The industrialized world might be dependent upon oil, but in the end, water was the greater need — and something she gave more freely.

The minarets of The Great Mosque speared the sky, and Fridkov mused to himself that the devotion of the Arabians to their daily scheduled prayers was akin to that of the Americans to their television and French fries. He identified several members of the muttawa patrolling the streets, screening for violators of Islamic fundamentals.

Fridkov realized that he was not so unlike the muttawa himself. However, he would draw the line at removing the nipples from the mannequins in a women’s clothing store. Fridkov’s style was much more subtle — yet direct.

The car turned onto Al Matar, and now he must focus on the task at hand — the meeting with Israt Medivir, the president of Medivir Petroleum. The Medivir Building, though not nearly as tall and grand as the Ministry of Petroleum, still displayed the great wealth and success of the company. Success and wealth that had come purely by happenstance and not because of any great effort or planning on the part of Israt Medivir.

It was only his name that Medivir had given the company; the rest had come to him as nothing less than a gift — a gift that had now turned into a threat.

Looking in a well-positioned mirror, Fridkov arranged the traditional headscarf, ghuttera, over his dark hair so that it framed the sides of his face like a curtain. He placed the aqal around the crown of his head to hold it in place and adjusted the moustache and goatee he’d donned on the airplane. With his naturally swarthy skin, dark eyes, and thick brows, Fridkov would blend in perfectly.

His briefcase rested comfortably against his calf, not so heavy, for it didn’t even contain a laptop. No. What Fridkov needed for his meeting wasn’t any burden to bear.

At last, the car eased to a halt in front of the Medivir Building. A tall, glistening glass spear, the offices of one of Saudi Arabia’s largest petroleum companies clearly bespoke its prestige. Fridkov paid his driver with riyals and stepped from the cool comfort of the Lincoln into a wall of heat that made him gasp audibly.

A burst of air from the revolving door rustled his ghuttera, and then he was once again in cool comfort. How did people live in this 45-degree Celsius heat, day after day?

The Arabians have a love for their desert, despite the barrenness and aridity of the waves of sand. Fridkov could not imagine feeling anything but dislike for the dust and grit and skin-tugging dryness — not to mention the thirst and boredom.

The floor of the main lobby was intricate granite and marble design, and it gleamed like the glass of the building’s exterior. It was quiet and empty but for the fifteen or so live date trees that grew from holes in the floor, surrounded by round metal grates. The ceiling of the lobby rose high above, curving gently to meet at the top. No security guards; but a desk with two young men who looked up as he approached. Fridkov flashed the counterfeit Medivir employee badge as he walked on past.

Continuing his stride without waiting for acknowledgement, he made his way to the elevators that nestled in a small alcove to the north side of the building. The buttons were labeled in both Arabic and English, of course, and he pressed the one that said 35. The top floor, where Medivir’s office overlooked the city.

Medivir wasn’t expecting him, but Fridkov had no qualms about appearing without warning. He knew for certain the man was not traveling and would be in the office today. Once Fridkov’s presence was announced, Medivir would not dare deny him entrance. Even if Fridjov had made an appointment, or attempted to make one, the casualness of the business culture would not guarantee that he would see him today. And he must see him today, before another — Fridkov pulled back the sleeve of his robe to glance at his watch — four hours had passed.

The elevator doors opened to display a small, rounded greeting area. A gentleman sat behind the reception desk, his black hair combed back and gleaming as if it were wet. Instead of the traditional thobe and ghuttera, he wore Western business suit, white shirt, and subtly-patterned blue and black tie. He looked up and offered a polite greeting. “As-salam alaikum.”

“Wa alaikum as-salam,” Fridkov responded appropriately in Arabic, telling the receptionist that God’s peace should also be with him; then he switched to English. Although he spoke a myriad of languages, Arabic was not one of them. His best choice was English, the most common second language spoken in Arabia and Fridkov did not wish to give any information about his identity by his selection of language, it was the best choice. “Please give this to Mr. Medivir. I need a moment of his time.”

He slid a small white card across the desk to the receptionist. The younger man picked it up, looked at the front in confusion, then turned it over to find a blank side. He looked at Fridkov, who merely smiled. “Mr. Medivir will understand. You need give it to no one but him, if you would. I will be happy to wait.”

The young man hesitated, then, apparently recognizing the intent in Fridkov’s eyes, rose from his seat and hurried out of the room.

Moments later, he returned with a much more relaxed expression on his face. “Sir, you may please have a seat for only a moment. Mr. Medivir will shortly finish his telephone conference and will then see you immediately. May I offer you some coffee? Or tea perhaps? Fizzy water?”

“A coffee would be most welcome,” Fridkov told him with gratitude. It had been more than twelve hours since he’d been sent to Riyadh from Amsterdam, and between the planning, traveling, and off and on sat-phone conversations — plus the jet lag — he could use a bit of a boost.

Fridkov had just added pinches of cardamom and cinnamon to his steely black coffee when an unobtrusive door near the reception desk clicked and opened. A tall, slim man in a Hugo Boss suit and Armani tie stepped through. At 40, Israt Medivir was younger than his photos made him appear, and with his olive complexion, hooked nose, and tiny black cool patch on his chin, he looked more like an Italian businessman than an Arabian oil sheik.

He made a direct line to Fridkov, who stood immediately, choosing to show the man deference while under the observation of the receptionist. With a slight bow, and then a proffered hand, Medivir offered the same greeting of peace Fridkov had shared with the receptionist.

Again, Fridkov replied, and when his host asked him to follow, he fell into step behind him. They passed no one during their walk down a short hallway illuminated with soft yellow lights and then into an expansive room. Medivir’s private office.

Fridkov strolled into the room, and continued walking across it to the ceiling to floor windows along one wall. Amazing to be this high, overlooking the city, eye to eye with the Faisalia Tower, with its odd spherical cap — and then to see the vast expanse of flat brown desert in the distance.

“I am most honored at your presence,” Medivir said from behind him. “Your people have not visited the Kingdom for many years.”

“Ten years, I believe it has been. Your dealings were with Roman?”

Medivir nodded. Fridkov had a moment to wonder what that meeting would have been like: the controlling, precise Roman striking a deal with the younger, staid Medivir. A deal that would make Medivir, who had been, at that time, a tradesman dealing in coffee, wealthy beyond his imagination, and forever beholden to Roman and his people. Rather like Daniel Webster selling his soul to the devil.

“Yes, Roman and I have continued our business dealings through video conferencing, telephone, and email, but he has not returned to the Kingdom since our initial meeting.”

Fridkov would have liked to learn more about how Medivir had been chosen; how Roman had met him and selected him to be the bearer of his people’s product. But that was immaterial now.

He glanced at his watch. Three and a half more hours. He needed to finish the meeting successfully and be back at King Khalid for his flight.

Silence stretched for a moment, and then, as if remembering himself, Medivir offered his visitor a seat. Fridkov then sat across the desk from his host, noting the way the man’s hands trembled while he kept his fingers busy arranging pens and papers. He was, and should be, uneasy at the surprise visit by Roman Aleksandrov’s representative.

“The latest news of the Crimson Shell reached Roman yesterday,” Fridkov spoke. He held his flat black briefcase on his lap, pulled up against his abdomen. “He was not pleased, as you can imagine.”

Medivir shot to his feet. Agitation played over his face, and through his nerves as his fingers moved in an erratic dance over the desk. “Tragic. Very tragic. We—”

“A Tier Three oil spill is not acceptable.” Fridkov opened his case with a snap sounding like a gunshot.

“We have already called in the containment specialists. They have been working around the clock since the spill. It is not—”

“But, yes, it is. It is unacceptable. The damage will be horrific, both biologically and economically. I have been authorized to advise you that our partnership will cease as of” —he looked at his watch for effect—“twelve minutes from now. Noon today.” He slid his hand into the leather envelope and pulled out a small pen.

Medivir’s dark face took on a greenish cast. “No! No, there must be — we will take complete responsibility—”

It was pathetic … but then perhaps if he were in Israt Medivir’s shoes; just on the verge of losing his fortune and power, Fridkov would be tempted to plead as well. He fingered the metal pen, considering. No. No, he would not. He would face his defeat, his mistakes gracefully.

He pushed the clip on the pen, and the tiny ping was barely audible over Medivir’s fumbling apologies. The dart found its mark and the man across the desk abruptly stopped speaking. Eyes and mouth open in astonishment, he froze, then pitched forward.

Fridkov was already moving and caught the man before he made a thump that might be heard outside the room. He laid him on the floor behind the desk and hurried over to lock the door.

Fifteen minutes, no more than twenty, and he would be finished.

He pulled a small syringe from his case, followed by a plastic bag of dark liquid that sloshed as he moved it. Five of his fifteen minutes later, Fridkov had finished with Medivir and took the man’s seat at his desk.

Clicking effortlessly on the computer keys, he made his way through Medivir’s confidential files and into the Medivir Company’s main database. As he quickly and efficiently erased every file that contained details that would identify their arrangement, the only other Arabic phrase he knew slipped into his mind: “In shallah.”

As God wills it.

And so it would be.